


What To Do When You Feel the World Crashing Around You

by KittyCatriona (War_Worn_Lipstick)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, First Meeting, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Not youtube, Oneshot, Phan - Freeform, Talking to Oneself, a little depression i guess, and honestly it's a little creepy, because that apparently leaks into everything i write, i honestly don't know what else to tag because wtf is this, it's just dan thinking a lot and reading too much into things, maladaptive imagination, maybe a little dissociation, or drabble i guess idk, there's like no romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:58:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/War_Worn_Lipstick/pseuds/KittyCatriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan's been having a hard time, drowning in his little town, and one night while he's talking to himself he comes across a stranger from Rawtenstall, who he aptly nicknames, well, Rawtenstall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What To Do When You Feel the World Crashing Around You

**Author's Note:**

> imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry

I think if I were ever to get out of this town, I’d be happy. It’s the cracked and weedy pavement, see, that drags my feet. It’s the thick, warm air that stutters my breath. And it’s the people who talk and laugh that turn my smile into a grimace into a straight, narrow line or a bitter, hateful smirk. 

I think if there were somewhere else I could go, somewhere the streets are clean and the air is fresh and the people keep their noses in their own business, I could walk, I could breathe, I could smile. It’s been a while. I’d rather not think about it.

I find that walking at night calms me down, because the town looks and feels entirely different. But to walk at night means sacrificing sleep, because I’m still expected to function during the day. So I don’t do it very often. Or I used to not, but now I’ve stopped caring and go almost nightly. It’s the starlight, it’s the dew in the grass, it’s the fact that I can’t see litter or weeds, and it’s, most importantly, the fact that no one else is out there. 

In a town like this, people tend to have early bedtimes. It’s just one of those things. 

So I walk and it makes me feel better for a while, because I don’t feel restricted and I can think about things that I actually enjoy thinking about. I tend to talk to myself but it doesn’t matter at night, it doesn’t matter when there’s no one around to see it. 

“Do you love me?” I whisper, and my eyes are not on the path in front of me, my eyes are not on the navy sky. 

“How could you even ask me that?” I whisper back, and I blink and swallow and I notice the weird way that tree is bent, and it pulls me out for a second. I take a deep breath and go back. 

I can’t think of anything to say in response so I rewind. 

“Do you love me?” I whisper. My eyes are glazed but they’re not glazed enough. I think maybe the question is too cliché, but then I remember that it doesn’t matter, no one else is going to see this, no one else can judge me for this, it’s wholly mine, and if I desire something that happens to be a cliché then it doesn’t even matter, it’s not even cliché anymore. 

My eyes are not on the path in front of me, my eyes are not on the navy sky. 

I respond. “I think you should leave.”

And I do. It hurts but I do. 

I envision myself standing alone in a kitchen, a kitchen I’ve never stood in before but that is very carefully constructed with white appliances and cream cabinets, and I envision myself having just sent my best friend away, a person I do, in fact, love. I envision myself being filled with regret, but also relief, because I know I did what was right. 

And then I envision myself, the best friend, crying just out of earshot, behind a door. I envision myself thinking he doesn’t love me. 

“Are you okay?”

I flinch and possibly yelp. There’s a man a few yards away from me. A pale blue t-shirt is stretched across his wide shoulders and his hands are curling in front of his abdomen. I’m standing alone in the grass in this godforsaken town, only a couple feet away from the weedy pavement, and I’m not actually alone, and I’ve been talking to myself, and I’m not actually alone. The air is heavy again and I’m not alone. 

“Sir?” he calls me Sir. 

I take a deep breath and shake out. “Yea—er, yes, thank you, I’m fine.” 

“You were talking to someone,” he says, but it comes out more like a question. I decide his voice is round and warm. Not the voice of the people in this town. I wonder if he’s just visiting. 

My hand finds the back of my neck, and the pads of my fingers are running softly beneath my hairline and then my fingernails are scraping a little less softly. “Yeah, I—” another deep breath, because that’s all I can do—“I do that. I talk to myself. Sorry.”

He steps a little closer and I can see a smile finding his face. I wonder if I should be worried but then again, his voice is round and warm. “That’s cool,” he says, and the words don’t really process. “I’ve never met someone who actually talks to themselves before.”

I wince and want to crawl into a hole. Knowing this town, there aren’t any holes nearby. “You mean you’ve never met anyone fucking mental,” I say instead. 

He laughs and it’s cute, and I remember he’s a little taller than me and more filled-out and I definitely shouldn’t be finding him cute, I definitely should be more scared of him than I am. “You shouldn’t say that,” he says. “It’s not very nice.” 

“Sorry,” I say, and blink. “I’ve never been all that nice.”

“By choice?” he asks.

“Accidentally,” I reply. 

He comes a little closer and his eyes are reflecting the navy of the sky so nicely. His hair is black and better than mine. “You seem hard on yourself,” he says with a frown. 

I shrug and don’t respond. 

Eventually he talks again. “Are you out here for any particular reason?”

Another shrug and I say, “To talk to myself.”

“About what?”

I want to tell him to mind his own business but the words don’t form. “Where are you from?” I ask, cringing a little. If this were in my head, and it will be for weeks to come, I wouldn’t have asked that. I’d ask something else instead, something less intrusive, like “What do you do when you feel the world crashing around you.” And then he’d get weirded out and leave and my dreams would be alive.

As it is, he smiles again. “Rawtenstall.” 

“I don’t know where that is,” I say. 

“Near Manchester.”

“Oh, okay. That’s far,” I say. 

He shrugs and that little smile is back on his face. “What do you talk to yourself about?” he asks.

I allow a small smile as well. “What are you doing here?”

His smile grows. “Visiting a friend. What do you talk to yourself about?”

I look away and my cheeks feel a little too warm, even considering the oppressive air. “And your name?”

“I’m not gonna tell you until you tell me what you talk to yourself about.”

“That’s personal,” I say, and it’s very obviously a shutdown. 

He stutters. “Sorry. My filter sometimes breaks.”

“That’s alright,” I say. “I don’t really have a filter in the first place.”

We stand in silence for a few moments. “I should let you get on your way,” he says. 

I nod. “Have fun visiting your friend.” 

“Have fun talking to yourself.” 

If it were anyone else, I would probably have gotten angry. But Rawtenstall, he seems nice. He seems like he means well. So I just nod again and we’re brushing shoulders as we walk by each other, and then we’re quite a distance away but I can feel eyes on my neck and I wonder if he’s looking back. I take a deep breath. 

“Hey, Rawtenstall,” I say and turn around. 

He’s already looking. “Yeah?”

“I like your hair,” I say. And then I wonder why I said it. I’m already halfway down the next street by the time he calls back a—rather confused—thank you, and my cheeks are so warm I think this must be what a blush feels like. 

I don’t make it back into the headspace of “Do you love me?” Until I get back to my home, and collapse into my bed, and wrap my arms around myself, I’m just replaying my conversation with Rawtenstall. I wish he’d told me his name. I wish I’d been savvy enough to ask for his number. I wish I’d stayed to chat. I wish I hadn’t shut him out. 

Most of all, I wish I’ll get to see him again, and as I close my eyes to sleep, I think, for just a fraction of a second, that Rawtenstall sounds a lot more promising than this place. I know nothing about Rawtenstall, but I’d bet the sky there is the color of his eyes and the streets are smooth like his skin. I’d even go so far as to bet the air is light and warm like his smile. 

And, much to my surprise, when I remember the earth is round like his voice, I feel better about where I am. Not happy, by any means, but better. I think that maybe tomorrow I’ll look into the University of Manchester and maybe I won’t be drowning. I tell myself, a whisper into the silent room, _Rawtenstall, Rawtenstall, Rawtenstall._ Not happy, but better.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> I'm drowning and facing homelessness!
> 
> I'd really appreciate comments!
> 
> Even if you didn't understand a word of what I just wrote! Tell me about not understanding a word of it! I'm desperate for attention! Someone please love me!
> 
> Also!
> 
> This was unedited/not even reread and I'm sorry! I'm really really sorry! Read some of my other stories, they're better (but not really)!
> 
> Also Also!
> 
> Dan's talking to himself and maladaptive imagination is entirely based on my personal experience! Sorry if it seems weird! But also don't be afraid to talk to me about your experiences with imagination because I'm actually really interested in that! How does your mind work?! Let me know! I'll be intrigued no doubt!


End file.
